


Invictus

by paox



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Falling In Love, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Rebellion, Violence, also they're in love, and they Fuck Shit Up and start the rebellion, basically the lads are tributes and the gents are their mentors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 04:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16485560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paox/pseuds/paox
Summary: The Hunger Games are a constant in everybody’s life, cruel and overbearing. When three fated strangers are thrown into the arena - the son of a victor, an archer from the coal mining district, and the child of a long-dead rebellion - the fate of the world will soon come to hang in the balance.(Or - Gavin’s father is a mess, and life has always been overshadowed by the Games, and when he's thrown into the arena and promptly falls head-over-heels for two of other tributes… well. This might end badly. Or in nationwide rebellion.)





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> HEY this is another wip and it's not proofread, so for that I'm very sorry. Not quite sure if I'll continue this, but I might if this is received positively. Let me know what you think of it!

**.**

**.**

**.**

As it does every year, the day comes simultaneously too slowly and not slowly enough. 

Waking up is harder than it should be. Gavin squints at the ceiling for five minutes straight before even beginning to move, and he feels slow and sluggish as he pulls on a sweatshirt and pants and tries to force his body to wake up. Outside, the sky is heavy and dark, and snow is drifting slowly down through the sky, capping the mountains in every direction. The reaping isn’t for another few hours, but there’s already noise slipping through the cracks from the kitchen. Gavin has to force himself to resist the urge to lie back down and go back to sleep. 

When he eventually does manage to force himself to the door, twisting the cold doorknob and taking a deep, steadying breath, Gavin shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt and shuffles downstairs, the floor smooth and cold beneath his bare feet. This house has always felt too big for just the two of them, and such is obvious in the hollow echoes that sound makes in this house and the empty rooms that neither of them every uses. Gavin is used to it, of course - after all, this home is the only one he’s ever known - but that’s not to say that living in Victor’s Village doesn’t sometimes get...lonely. 

That’s just the way life is when you’re the son of a Victor. 

Okay, fine, maybe not quite - adoptive son of a Victor. But when your tired, alcoholic mess of a dad won the second Quarter Quell and mentors the new kids every single year, the technicalities aren’t really paid too much attention. Your life is always going to be different from that of everybody around you, whether it be the sneering, hulking career kids who train in the center just down the road from Victor’s Village or the kids you went to school with, learning about your dad in history class. 

It’s a lonely existence, trying to balance taking care of your dad and making friends (one of those is far more difficult than the other, and that’s only because Gavin is very used to taking care of his dad by now), as well as staying out of the way of stray journalists who try to follow you home from school, eager for an interview with the mysterious, scandalous child of Geoff Ramsey. 

And, speaking of the man-

Geoff looks surprisingly awake for this time in the morning, wearing sweatpants and shimmying an egg in a pan with one hand as he combs through his unwaxed moustache with the other. The dark circles under his eyes are deep enough that Gavin is maybe a little concerned, but hey - at least he’s awake this time, not passed out like on most previous reaping days. 

(This day is difficult for both of them, and Geoff probably most of all. He’s the one who has to go off and take care of two cocky careers in the Capitol for months, and then watch them fight for their lives.)

Geoff looks up as Gavin shuffles in, grinning and making a motion like he’s going to swing the pan at Gavin’s head and miraculously managing to keep the egg in the pan even as he spins it. “Morning, dipshit.”

“Hello, Geoffery,” Gavin yawns, sitting down at the table.

“How many times have I gotta tell you not to call me that?” Geoff flips the egg more aggressively. “It’s bad enough that the fuckin’ Capitol vultures do, don’t you make it a habit.”

“Why not? I think it makes you seem more… refined.” Gavin nudges one of the empty whisky bottles on the table to emphasise his point, watching it role lazily across the wood. “More like you’ve got it all together, y’know?”

“Asshole. How did I end up with such an asshole kid?”

“I learned from the best!”

Neither of them talks about today - at least, not yet. It’s best to let the problem sit between them for a while, let the huge reality of it settle like dust. Sometimes, Geoff isn’t gone long - once, he had the first week, and then the games started and both of the careers from two died at the cornucopia. Most of the time, however, it lasts a while. The longest Geoff has been gone to date was four years ago, when the arena was a freezing tundra and the female career from 2 survived for almost five weeks before finally securing her victory - and then after that, of course, there are interviews and parties and tours, and Gavin didn’t see Geoff for three months straight. Staying alone in Victor’s Village for that long doesn’t sound pleasant, to say the least. 

So things feel normal for a while. Geoff plates up a cheese omelette for Gavin, his favourite, and they sit in comfortable silence as the snow drifts down outside of the bay windows. The streets are already bustling, and the Victor’s village may be quiet (it often is around this time of the year) but the rest of district two is already awake and ready for the day ahead. The time feels like it creeps closer and closer every time Gavin dares to glance away from the clock. 

At some point, Geoff seems to pick up on Gavin’s worry and asks, quietly, “What’re you worried about, kid? You’re fidgety as hell.”

“Just- y’know. It’s that time of year. Who isn’t worried? Aside from the careers.”

Geoff mutters something that sounds a little like,  _ well, they should be, _ before clearing his throat. “It doesn’t sound like much, but you know they’re not going to pick you, right? Your name is in there five times out of, what, thousands? Hundreds of thousands? And plus, even if you were to be reaped, the male career they’ve chosen for this year is going to swoop in and volunteer in a split-second.”

“That’s… not really what I’m worried about. I don’t know.” Gavin sighs. “It’s not very bloody pleasant when you go off to the capitol, Geoff. I’m always worried reporters are going to show up at the house and, like, try to scalp me to make a wig for some big Capitol celebrity, or try to get me to spill all of your scandalous secrets or something. It’s… kinda shit, without you around.”

“They better fucking not,” Geoff says, half-joking, and as Gavin stares down at the table with furrowed brows, the man steals a piece of his omelette. “Listen, Gav, I know it sucks. I don’t like it much either. But god knows all the other Victors are too wrapped up in themselves to properly take care of two tributes. It’s going to be a good few years ‘til I retire.”

Gavin nods at the table and tries to come up with words to adequately describe the uncomfortable squirming in his stomach. After a few minutes of silence, he gives up and goes upstairs to get into more suitable clothes, leaving Geoff to wash the dishes, and still unable to quite put a finger on the growing trepidation he feels. 

_ Come on. Just make it through today. That’ll be enough.  _

**.**

**.**

**.**

All the reapings commence on the same day, but they’re staggered, so the pigs in the Capitol can watch them each live. Traditionally, twelve comes first. Jeremy thinks this is bullshit. 

A more accurate description would perhaps be that he thinks this whole entire thing is bullshit - but then again, that’s nothing new. Jeremy doubts that there’s a single person in twelve who doesn’t think this whole thing is bullshit; the only difference there is that nobody else ever says it. Even Jeremy doesn’t really say it in places where people could hear and there are ears everywhere, but here - out in the woods, past the fence - there is nobody to hear. Jeremy could scream his hatred for those people out into the emptiness and nobody would hear. 

But he doesn’t. Jeremy isn’t really the type to do that kind of thing - he’s impulsive, sure, but also very used to burying the rage that comes with living in district twelve. Everybody here is living like this, and nobody makes a fuss, mostly because it never does anything. This thought is the one that keeps Jeremy from boiling over as he heads back to the fence with no spoils (and  _ damnitt, _ he’d wanted to give a few cuts of something to Matt’s family, but apparently that isn’t going to be happening). He shouldn’t be surprised. Capitol airships, filled with reinforcement peacekeepers, have been flying over the forest all morning, headed for twelve. The forest is eerily empty now, all the game scared away.  _ Fuck. _

Ducking back through the gap in the fence, Jeremy jogs back through the Seam, down through the slums. People are already waking up even though it’s just after dawn, eyes dark and shadowed with the promise of what is to come, flooding the streets with clothes coated with a deep-set layer of soot. It rained all of last night, and a few children play in a puddle that has gathered beneath somebody’s porch. Water runs in thin rivulets down through the gutters, sweeping away dead leaves and ashes, and Jeremy picks up his pace. It’s cold this time of year. 

Jeremy’s house is small and ramshackle, tucked away at the corner of the seam, and Jeremy knows that there’s somebody inside before he’s even halfway down the road approaching it. He lives alone, so this should be alarming, but he’s not too worried, knowing that it’s likely Matt, and- yep, it’s Matt, sitting at the tiny kitchen table and wringing his hands. He doesn’t look up as Jeremy comes in, closing the door behind him and toeing off his boots, hanging his hunting jacket up on the back of the door, putting away his bow. He doesn’t even look up when Jeremy sits down across from him. Matt has never been the most confident, but he looks very, very scared right now. 

(This happens every year. Jeremy is still not used to it.)

“You alright, buddy?”

Matt shudders, and it seems to run through his whole body. “Uh- yeah. Yeah. Fine.” He coughs roughly. “I’m just fine.”

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not, I’m- I’m fucking terrified, Jeremy, Jesus Christ.”

“Alright, alright, calm down for a second- Matt. Matt! Listen to me.”

Matt glances up from where his forehead is now pressed to the wood of the table. The rough planks have left a little red indent in the rest of his forehead. “-Yeah?”

“You took my advice when it comes to submitting your name extra times.”

“...Yeah.”

“And how many times is your name in, total?”

“Four,” Matt recites back, sounding a little punchdrunk. “Jeremy, it’s in there  _ four times-” _

“Exactly - the minimum for sixteen year olds.” Jeremy grabs Matt’s shoulders firmly. “Matt. Buddy. I’m seventeen, and my name’s in there forty-seven times.”

Matt draws in a sharp breath. “Which is exactly why  _ you  _ might get reaped, which is just as bad, practically, if you think about it-”

_ “-And every other kid in the Seam,” _ Jeremy carries on loudly, to drown out Matt’s compulsive worrying, “Probably has their name in as many times as I do, just to get the extra food. You’re in the best position out of everybody I know. They’re not going to pick you.”

Matt slams his forehead back down on the table. “But what if they do? I’d die, Jeremy - some asshole from two would lop my head off fives seconds into the fucking games and then my family has nobody-”

“I’m literally insulted,” Jeremy says. “What am I, chopped liver, you fuck?”

“You know what I mean!”

“No I don’t!” Jeremy groans in frustration. “They’re not going to pick you. They’re not going to pick me. We’re both going to meet up tonight with your family, and I’ll find a way to get us some bread or something, and then tomorrow I’ll take you outside of the fence and you can rant about what all the different plants are and this year’s tributes will be gone and we’ll never see them again and that’ll be that.  _ Trust me.” _

Matt glares mildly up at Jeremy from between his arms. “I hate that you’re my only friend. Asshole.” 

“You’re welcome.” Jeremy messes up Matt’s overgrown hair. “Go get ready. Gotta look presentable for the peacekeepers, right?”

(This happens every year.)

**.**

**.**

**.**

There’s screaming in the streets today. 

Michael hears it the second he wakes up - or maybe the screams are what wake him up in the first place. He’s not quite sure. All he knows is that the sky is darker than usual, heavy above them all, and there must be a flogging taking place in the square. Even on days like this, with the reaping barely a few hours away now, apparently the peacekeepers can’t quite control themselves when it comes to punishing the residents of seven. 

Still - there’s no time to waste lying around, especially not today. Lindsay’s already awake, pottering around in the kitchen, and Michael hears her leave as he’s pulling on his jacket. It’s typical of her to be up and about this early, always cheerful and happy even as she bounces between multiple houses and residences. Everybody knows Lindsay, after all - she’s mixed up in just about everybody’s business on this side of the district. The amount of time she spends at Michael’s house is minimal, but it was nice for the two of them to stick together last night, playing card games to scare away the nightmares. 

It won’t be too bad, hopefully. Michael prays every year that it won’t be somebody he knows - won’t be Lindsay, like a sister to him, or Ray, his best friend - and he’s been lucky so far. Lindsay is still as cheerful as she always was, and Ray still as elusive. The three of them, tied together since they were kids, have stayed that way, even if things are more difficult now than they’ve ever been. Michael’s name is in there upwards of thirty times today, Lindsay’s around the same, Ray’s probably more than that. It’s risky, but a risk necessary to take in these troubled times. 

Outside, whispers rumble through the streets and through the trees, their tall forms dark against the sky, towering over everything. Everybody is tense and nervous, and Michael spots Lindsay leaning against a wall nearby and chatting to a pretty girl, Lindsay leaning on her axe, the girl holding a sack of flour on either shoulder. They both catch Michael’s eye as he passes and Lindsay beams and waves, seemingly oblivious to the dark, oppressive atmosphere (because of course she is). Ray is nowhere to be seen. The person being flogged is still yelling out in the square. 

Michael wanders for a while, listless, unsure of what to do on a day like this. Seven isn’t a career district, but most people from here - including Michael himself - are talented with an axe, as well as being naturally strong. Two years ago, a girl from seven came second, but bled out before she could take the crown. That’s as close as they’ve gotten in a decade. 

This year, it’s unlikely that much is going to change. 

Eventually, the screams stop. The first reaping - in district twelve - is going to start soon, and most people begin the slow march into the square, flooding in like ghosts, pale with trepidation. Michael drags his feet on the way into the square, just so he can get a place at the back where less people are likely to stare. The streets are very quiet all of a sudden as Michael is herded into the square, and the trees whisper among themselves. Peacekeepers are set up all along the tops of surrounding buildings, armed with machine guns, masked and silent. 

Michael catches sight of Ray near the back of the rows of kids and makes a beeline for him, ducking through the crowds to get to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey, Michael.” Ray turns to him, and he has a black eye and a split lip, but that’s not unusual. “You alright?”

“Yeah. What happened to you?”

Ray shrugs. “You know how it is.”

Michael does. Instead of giving that a response, he glances past Ray to try to spot Lindsay among the lines of girls at the other side of the square. She catches his eye, sandwiched between the pretty girl and somebody else, and grins. It seems a little more muted now.

And of course it is. The air feels far thicker than before, and as Michael turns his head back towards the front, he catches sight of a mother having to push her crying son into the front row a he fights to stay by her side. This must be his first year - twelve years old, as Michael and Lindsay and Ray were five years ago, and terrified of the arena. Michael doesn’t blame the kid, but he wishes he would stop crying - the screams are louder than the ones from this morning, higher. Sadder. More scared than the resignation that comes with a beating from the peacekeepers. 

At the front of the square, behind the stage, the big screen flickers to life as the Capitol anthem begins to boom over them all, drowning out the screams of the little boy and the crying of parents stuck at the back of the square, away from their children. Victorious trumpets blare and Michael scowls openly as the face of President Snow appears before them all, giving the same pre-recorded speech as every year. Michael doesn’t even pay attention to the words anymore. It’s easier to take the words of the president with disdain when you know that they’re blatant lies. 

Beside him, Ray yawns. Across the square, Lindsay makes a show of lightly slapping her face to keep herself awake. Michael has to force down a grin -  _ this  _ is why they’ve been friends for so long. (That and the childhood trauma).

When the babble about the dark days and the might of the capitol and the bravery of the victors is finally over, the video fades to black and there’s silence for a few seconds. Near the front, the little boy starts crying again. 

Then, a new scene flickers onto the screen. District twelve always looks very grey, like somebody has put a thin sheet of black tissue paper over the lenses of the cameras. Today is no exception. Crowds of children - though thinner than those here, with each child small-shouldered and dark-haired - line the square there, and on the stage is the dressy Capitol showhost, prancing and loudly, optimistically exclaiming the occasion. There isn’t a single person in the crowd smiling. 

With  _ may the odds be ever in your favour, _ a shiver runs through the crowd at twelve and seven alike. Even Michael barely holds back a grimace. 

And just like that, they’re reaping. The girl chosen is short and young, and cries as she’s escorted onto the stage, short black hair sticking up as she runs her hands back through it. Her name is Ruby. Michael guesses that she must be fifteen or sixteen at most, and this all seems far too unfair. 

When they reap the boys - well, that’s when it gets interesting. 

The showhost crosses the stage, high-heels clicking, the girl still sobbing quietly, and swirls her hand around a few times in the big, glass orb, letting the tension build. After a few seconds, her hand finally swoops in and she pulls out a little slip of paper, pinched between two fingers like it’s something mildly dirty and crossing back to the microphone. 

“The male tribute of district twelve, for this year’s Hunger Games, is… Matthew Bragg!”

Immediately, there’s a commotion. 

A boy, about sixteen, steps forwards. He has overgrown brown hair and he’s shaking like a leaf, and four peacekeepers are already advancing, ready to grab his arms. A few rows back, however, people are shifting around, somebody trying to fight their way out of the crowd, and even as this kid - Matthew - is grabbed by peacekeepers, their hands like vices on his thin arms-

_ “Matt! _ Matt, no, Matt!” 

Another kid bursts out of the crowd, running forwards, two peacekeepers forcing him back. Matt looks back at this kid - a little older, short and stocky, desperate - and something… passes between them, Michael thinks. 

Abruptly, he knows exactly what’s going to happen before it does. 

“I volunteer!  _ I volunteer-!” _ The new kid shakes off the peacekeepers, standing tall and saying very clearly, voice not shaking in the slightest, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Silence falls for a split second. The other kid slumps, and Michael can’t see his face but he knows how life changing something like this must be, knows how much it would hurt. If Ray ever volunteered in his place, it would break Michael. It would kill him. 

This is the first time something like this has happened in district twelve. Nobody really knows what to do for a second, before the showhost seems to get back into the swing of things, inviting this new kid - who looks numb, reaching out to push Matt back into the crowd, eyes dark - up onto the stage. When he’s finally up there, standing beside the crying girl with the Capitol host’s talons tight on his shoulder, it looks like he’s having trouble processing what on earth is going on. 

“Ah, now - what’s the name of our brave young tribute here…?”

The kid clears his throat shakily. “Jeremy. Uh- Jeremy Dooley.”

“Jeremy Dooley, now that’s-” The host flails for a moment to find the right words. “That’s just lovely.”

Michael tunes out the rest of their meaningless conversation, instead just zeroing in on the kid’s face, trying to memorise the numb, dull horror there. This brave young kid - and fuck, he’s young - who just signed up to die for somebody who isn’t even family. This kid who reminds Michael so much of Lindsay, and of his parents, that it makes it hard to breathe. 

The other reapings - eleven, ten, nine and eight - pass in a blur, all the same as they are every year. Michael feels numb, and at some point Ray puts a hand on his arm, seeming to notice Michael drifting away. The world feels very indistinct. 

Eventually, they finally reach seven. 

The camera stationed on the rooftops all blink on at once, and the big screen changes, showing now an image of their whole crowd. Michael spies the back of his own head, ducked, with Ray close by his side. Their host sashays onstage with all the enthusiasm of a peacock, introducing herself and saying those eight words that make Michael shiver -  _ may the odds be ever in your favour  _ \- and he almost wants to yell then, because the odds are never in their favour; they weren’t in the favour of that kid from twelve, giving up his life, or for the little girl who cried even as they led her into the mayor’s building. The odds are never really in their favour, and least of all are they in Michael’s. Odds are maths, and when your name is in a glass globe full of names thirty times over, the odds are never going to be in your favour. Nothing is. 

The girl who’s drawn is one Michael has never met before - a girl called Gwen, eighteen and tired-looking. Resigned. She’s probably from the wealthier side of the district, but that’s not saying much, really. Michael watches her stand silently beside the host, fists clenched.

And then, just like that, it happens. 

Michael will realise later on that this day changed the course of his life - and maybe even the course of everything - for good. Later, it’ll occur to him that if things were just a little different, if it was just another nameless face in the crowd standing there beside the host, things would be entirely different to the way they were. 

Now, however, he doesn’t know any of that. He feels his heart clench painfully, as it always does, when the host reaches into the glass orb, swirling her hand around a few times. The square is dead silent. Ray’s grip on Michael’s arm gets a fraction tighter, and Michael grips back, the two of them hardly daring to breathe. 

The host swipes up one little piece of paper, crosses back over to the mic, and says very clearly, “The male tribute of district seven, for this year’s Hunger Games, is… Michael Jones!”

_ Oh. _

Everything is suddenly too blurry. Michael steps out of the crowds, squeezing Ray’s arm one more time before letting go. Four peacekeepers are approaching, hands on their batons, and Michael comes without a fight, numb. Somewhere in the crowd, Lindsay is crying. Up on the stage, the host beckons Michael with a smile like a vulture’s. 

Michael ascends the stairs slowly, and wonders if the kid from twelve is watching this. On the top step, he glances into the crowd and meets Ray’s eyes, wide and stricken under his unruly black hair. The host grabs Michael’s shoulder with her bony talons, nails digging into his skin, and asks if Michael would like to say anything about the upcoming games.

“Let’s just hope they’re all just as stupid as usual,” Michael finds slipping out of his mouth before he can stop it. 

He hopes, as there are all too abruptly hands on his shoulders, herding him and the girl into the doors under the big screen, that Ray and Lindsay don’t cry for too long when he dies. The last thing Michael sees before the big doors close behind him is Lindsay, crying even harder than before.


	2. Goodbyes

**Chapter Two - Goodbyes**

**.**

**.**

**.**

The room they shove Jeremy into is the cleanest he’s ever been in, he thinks. There’s a mahogany desk in the middle of the space, red velvet chairs elegantly arranged around it, and a screen up on one wall, showing the beginnings of eleven’s reaping. Behind Jeremy, the door closes and locks.

Silence falls, thick and full. Jeremy tries the door, just in case, and then crosses the room to warily sit in one of the chairs, lowering himself down with enough caution that there might as well be a bomb hidden beneath the plush velvet. Outside, he can hear the crowd moving, can hear murmurs and faint yelling. He wonders if this is going to make much of an impression on the gamemakers - district twelve’s first volunteer in decades - but feels too numb, too scared, to analyse any of that right now.

There was one Game, about six years ago, which was recorded as one of the shortest in history. The arena was only a few hundred square feet, all open and blocked off by huge walls, and the cornucopia had no useful weapons. The Victor of that year won by ripping out three tributes’ throats with her teeth. Jeremy reaches up on impulse to grab his neck at the thought, squirming in his seat, feeling anxiety rise up in his throat. He doesn’t want to go out like that, can’t even imagine the pain and terror of having your windpipe ripped apart, and _god-_

_Stop. Don’t think about it. You can’t let it scare you - isn’t that the first rule?_

There’s meant to be a brief opportunity to see family and friends before tributes get on the trains, and Jeremy wonders if anybody will come. Both of his parents have been gone for years now, his father lost in a mining accident and his mother to suicide, and Matt’s family are great, but they don’t know Jeremy very well. Only Matt would realistically be considered close enough to come visit, and he’s not here yet. Jeremy wonders if his friend will be able to bolster the courage to come say goodbye. He wouldn’t fault him if he didn’t.

Time passes too quickly. There’s a vaguely terrifying feeling now that everything has a time limit. Jeremy focuses on the reapings taking place on the screen to try to distract himself, watching the girl from eleven and the boy from nine both breaking down on the podium, and he’s just watched the hard-eyed boy from seven, strong-shouldered and snarky, being escorted into their building by peacekeepers when the doors bang open.

Matt stumbles in, a peacekeeper behind him barking that they have five minutes. Jeremy doesn’t pay him any mind, standing up so quickly that the stupid velvet chair falls back and crashes to the floor with a _crack._ They stare at each other for a second, neither quite sure what to say, and then Matt chokes out, “You fucking _idiot,_ Jeremy, Jesus Christ-”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Jeremy says wearily. “I’m sorry, Matt, I-”

Matt runs across the room and hugs Jeremy tight, and it hurts more than comforts. “This is it now. I’m never gonna fucking see you again, you asshole-”

“Yes you are,” Jeremy says quickly, “Yes you are, don’t underestimate me - I’m strong, right? I’ll be fine!”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Jeremy,” Matt says, and Jeremy deflates.

“Okay, so maybe it’ll be difficult, but… who gives a shit, right? I’ll find a way to live. Can’t leave the resident idiot to fend for himself, can I?”

Matt’s shoulders are shaking. “Jesus Christ, Jeremy-”

“I know.”

“You have to win, dude.” Matt fumbles in his pocket for a second, before retrieving a little phial filled with black charcoal dust - a relic from their childhood, from Matt’s coal miner dad who died in the same explosion as Jeremy’s did - and shoving it into Jeremy’s hands. “For your district. For your parents. For- I don’t give a shit what it’s for, Jeremy, just win for something.”

Jeremy nods solemnly, and Matt wipes his face. Outside of the door, the peacekeeper is probably getting impatient by now. They hug one more time, and then one more time again right by the door, because Jeremy feels like he might break into little pieces and he’s also terrified of getting on the train and realising that he didn’t hug Matt enough, didn’t say enough - that he forgot to do something important that he’s never going to get the chance to do again.

They’ve just pulled apart when the peacekeeper slams back through the doors. Jeremy can feel his burning disdain from behind the mask, and scowls at him as he grabs Matt and hurries him out. That crushing fear of not being able to do everything he needs to do is back, and Jeremy just barely manages to tell Matt to stay safe, and that he’ll be back, and that he’ll win-

And then Matt is gone, and the door slams, and the room is silent again.

Jeremy walks back to that stupid velvet chair like a zombie, his whole body tingly. He wonders vaguely if Matt’s family will be alright without Jeremy’s extra support. It’s only his mother and younger sister, but it’ll be tough. Jeremy finds himself wondering for some reason if the snarky kid from seven is hugging people goodbye. If he’s just as terrified of all of this as Jeremy was.

Jeremy hopes he is. That would make this all seem a little less scary, somehow.

On the screen, the reaping in two has just started, and Jeremy tries to focus on it just as the host at four - a man with surgically altered nails to look like the pincers of a crab - announces that there’s been a special consideration put in for districts one and two this year.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Special consideration, the guy said?

Shit. _Shit,_ that doesn’t sound like good news.

Gavin feels a particularly prominent chill creep up his spine. Geoff is absent, already on the train - he never sticks around to watch the reapings, especially not from the career districts. He told Gavin once that seeing kids just like he used to be, careers with too much confidence and not enough healthy fear of what they’re due to face, makes him angry. Gavin can honestly see why, Geoff having once been one of them, and with everything the games did to him it’s not a surprise that he doesn’t have the most positive attitude when it comes to kids being _excited_ to participate in them.

But for this kind of announcement, something Gavin has never seen in all his years of watching the reapings, it can only mean one thing. The Capitol are up to something, and it has something to do with the career districts.

“This year, due to a recent spike in career tributes being exclusively volunteered for the games, we have decided to…” The host taps his cheek with one of his pincers, smile far too wide to be natural, “Mix things up a little! Ladies and gentlemen, this year and this year only, there will be no volunteering permitted from either district one or two. The tribute drawn originally will be the single, final tribute.”

The reaction is immediate.

There are shouts of shock and anger from over where the careers are stood. All of them look particularly outraged and confused. Gavin almost feels bad for them - these kids who have trained all their lives only to miss their shot, to outgrow their one chance for glory - but Geoff would probably rejoice at something like this. Now they won’t have to turn out like him.

 _But some other kid will._ The careers dominate the protest, loud and entitled, but there are worried murmurs slipping through the crowd as the other kids of district two - especially the poorer ones, who have signed up for extra entries. The parents ringing the crowds of kids look worried, some murmuring and some openly protesting. Up on the roof, Gavin catches sight of a peacekeeper adjusting the aim of his machine gun.

And yep. Gavin doesn’t buy it.

The Capitol wouldn’t suddenly do something like this - not without reason, anyway - and even if they had, the motives don’t make any sense. Gavin wouldn’t go as far as to call himself smart, but if there’s one thing he knows a lot about, it’s the Games. Career tributes give the impression that the games have a hierarchy - that there are the careers, and then the regular kids, and then the skinny, twelve and thirteen-year old weeklings - and that gives the opportunity for certain reality show-like functions, like underdogs and twist endings and _intrigue._ The Games are entertainment, sick and deprived but entertainment nonetheless, and getting rid of the careers doesn’t make them anymore entertaining. It doesn’t make any _sense._

The girl who’s reaped ends up being a part of the career pack anyway, though she’s only fourteen and wasn’t meant to volunteer for another four years. She looks positively terrified but puts on a brave face anyway, striding down the middle of the two groups to the stage, head held high. Gavin’s chest aches for her. _Fourteen years old. The youngest tribute district two has seen in decades._

The host seems to be vibrating with excitement even with the now tense atmosphere, and as he crosses the stage to the orb of male names, it feels like the whole district holds their breath, for some reason. Gavin wonders absently what Geoff is going to think of this. What the Capitol is going to think of this. Is this a ploy that came from the Gamemakers, maybe? Or is it something that was decided by the higher-ups, even by somebody like Snow? It’s hard to know what’s going on when it comes to the Capitol’s politics sometimes, but this cannot be meaningless. This cannot mean nothing. It doesn’t make any _sense._

Making a big show of swirling his hand around - picking out a slip and them pretending to drop it back in, then picking out another and twirling it flamboyantly between his pincers - the host crosses back to the mic. The snow is still falling, and a little tuft of it is stuck to the spike of his unnatural haircut. There are still discontented murmurs spreading through the crowds, and this year’s male career is scowling deeply.

“The male tribute of district two, for this year’s Hunger Games, is…-”

The world seems to slow and spin and close in around Gavin, and it suddenly clicks in his mind what this must be-

And god, all the names in that globe are the same, he’s suddenly adamantly sure of it-

“-Gavin Ramsey!”

_Geoff is going to cry._

They didn’t use his real name. That’s what tips Gavin off for sure. Even as he’s grabbed by peacekeepers and escorted to the stage, numb and uncomprehending, his mind runs back over everything: how he always signs up under Gavin Free, his birth name, and _Ramsey_ is Geoff’s name, the one the press and the Capitol know him by. The name bound to make a stir.

 _God,_ Gavin can see the headlines now. The idea of the well-loved personality who won the second quarter quell, the mentor who has been a presence in the games for nearly twenty-five years now, having a son chosen for the games; even in addition to that, a son who is rumoured to be the result of an affair between Geoff and a million pretty Capitol ladies, who is the topic of millions of gossip articles, who Geoff Ramsey is fiercely protective of, and oh, fuck-

And more than anything it fits because this - Gavin’s wide-eyed stare and how his hands are shaking violently - is the entertainment they were looking for-

Up on the stage, everything is numb. The host asks Gavin a question and he responds on autopilot. The male tribute for this year is glaring at him - he knows, must have figured it out - and Gavin is going to hyperventilate, or fall off the stage, or even just die here and now, in front of the cameras. That would give them their bloody story.

And all too soon it’s over - Gavin isn’t taken to the visiting rooms, probably because the Capitol don’t want him telling anybody else what really happened, or maybe just because they know that there wouldn’t be anybody who would visit. The train station is only two blocks away, and Gavin is pushed out of the back doors of the building and down a sidestreet by a horde of peacekeepers on the way to the train station. The other tribute is probably seeing her family.

It’s still snowing, the sky still a pure, dark grey. Gavin glances over his shoulder to see if he can catch sight of Victor’s Village in the distance, where his bed and his clothes and everything he has are, where it’s warm and safe. He can’t see it through the blizzard, and one particularly rough peacekeeper pushes Gavin forward roughly, barking at him to keep moving.

_You’ll never go back there again. You’ll never see home again._

By the time they reach the train station, Gavin’s hands are shaking even harder, the tips of his fingers turning blue with the cold. His hair is falling into his eyes but he doesn’t reach up to push it back because there’s a peacekeeper right behind him and he’s pretty sure the guy has a gun. Nobody speaks, and Gavin is caught somewhere between numbness and the overwhelming urge to sob, eyes stinging. _Geoff is going to cry. This’ll break him. This’ll kill him._

The train is long and streamlined, with only one entrance (of course, because it’s nothing more than a gilded prison), and Gavin catches sight of his own reflection in one of the mirrored windows, wide-eyed and gaunt with pale cheeks. Disheveled and terrified.

The peacekeepers shove Gavin up the steps with no degree of gentleness, and the doors snap open noiselessly for him, Gavin staggering just to get his footing. He takes a step into the compartment, then another, and feels the doors snap shut an inch behind him. Swallowing back the hysteria is getting harder and harder.

And then, suddenly-

“That’s strange, the reaping ended quickly-”

The voice cuts off, and Gavin looks up.

Geoff is standing on the other side of the compartment, and he was holding a glass of something alcoholic but now it slips between his fingers, smashing on the marble floor. His eyes are very wide and his lips are parted, like he was trying to say a word but can’t quite form the syllables. He takes a shaky step forwards and says Gavin’s name, disbelieving and terrified all at once.

Gavin does the only thing he can do, and he cries.

They hug, for a long time, meeting somewhere in the middle of the compartment. Geoff always has given good hugs, and he presses Gavin’s face tight to his shoulder, one hand on the back of his head, the other arm wrapped tight around his shoulders. Gavin sobs and sobs - for the home he’s lost, for every kid who’s ever been through this, for Geoff. For himself. He tries to stutter out an explanation and Geoff shushes him, and Gavin can feel a tenseness in the man’s shoulders that tells of rage.

When they eventually pull apart (and properly this time, not like the few times where Gavin tried to pull back only to relapse back into tears again), Geoff’s eyes are dark but his face is soft. “It was rigged?”

“Yeah.” Gavin blows his nose into his sleeve. “No volunteers allowed. And they used Ramsey, not Free, just for the shock value.”

“Fuck,” Geoff says, and then, _“Fuck.”_

“I know,” Gavin says quietly, “Please don’t cry.”

“What?”

“That was the first thing I thought about.” Gavin wipes his face again. “Uh. That you’d cry, I mean. I know the one thing you never wanted was for me to end up like you, and I just- just please don’t cry, Geoff.”

Geoff stares at him for a second. “Gavin, you’re insane.”

“What?”

 _“Wot,”_ Geoff mutters incredulously, _“Wot,_ he says- Gavin, you shouldn’t be fucking worried about me, you dipshit!”

“But-!”

“You’re the one who’s in the goddamn Hunger Games!” Geoff says. “And damn if I’m not going to do everything in my power to get you out of that arena alive.”

“But-”

“No buts!” Geoff puts his hands on either side of Gavin’s face and stares him straight in the eye. “You’re going to survive this. You _will.”_

 _I’m scared, Geoff,_ Gavin wants to say, like he’s five again, running into his dad’s room to escape from the thunder. _I’m so, so scared,_ he wants to say, like a ten-year old hiding from the bullies, or a thirteen-year old watching the Games on the couch next to Geoff, or a seventeen-year old who has just been reaped to go into the arena with no training and no chance of survival and a father who is going to shatter into a hundred pieces when he dies.

Instead he just nods, and lets Geoff hug him again, and prays for this to be easy. For this to be quick. For this all to just be over soon.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Michael doesn’t get long with Lindsay and Ray.

The two come in almost as soon as Michael has been let in, barely a minute later, and they both tell Michael that he’s an idiot but he’s a brave idiot, and a strong idiot, and that all the gamekeepers don’t know what’s coming to them. Lindsay wipes her red-rimmed eyes on Michael’s shoulder and tells him that she and Ray will carry on visiting all three of their parents’ graves while Michael isn’t around to visit his own. Michael loves her, he realises, and Ray - both of them try so hard, fight so hard to stay alive and to protect each other and Michael - and he might never talk to them again.

He doesn’t ever say this, though. Instead, Michael just nods and grins and says, “I’m going to win. Trust me.”

“We know that, Michael.” Ray gives a rare smile. “And we’ll both be here when you get back, and we can force you to let us sleep over your brand new place in the Victor’s Village three nights a week, because we’re both assholes.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t cut all ties with both of you, asshole,” Michael says flatly.

“Michael! Don’t you love us?” Lindsay asks, mock-hurt lacing her voice, eyes bright. “Face it - we’d be more than sleepover buddies. You’d invite us over every night. We’d _live_ on your couch.”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure the couches in the Victor’s Village are bigger than my house, so that’s fair.”

(Michael lies to himself in telling himself that this easy banter is calming him down. It most definitely isn’t.)

When the peacekeeper finally barks for Lindsay and Ray to leave, they both hug Michael tight, Ray on his left and Lindsay on his right. Michael hugs them back and tries to take in everything about them: the way Lindsay smells like charcoal, Ray’s fluffy hair, how hard both of them are gripping him, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. None of them says goodbye, but this kind of feels like one.

Then, just as they pull apart, Ray presses something into Michael’s hand and smiles up at him, and him and Lindsay are both pulled away, Lindsay pressing one last kiss to Michael’s cheek and Ray mouthing _goodbye._

And just like that, they’re gone.

The doors close and lock, and Michael’s heart sinks down into his stomach. He feels abruptly cold and alone, and he can see the both of them in his mind’s eye, being pushed out of the building and standing in the square and just staring at each other, neither quite sure what to do. Michael always was the leader of their little trio. Sighing, he scans the room for security cameras before looking down and slowly opening his hand.

It’s… well, Michael isn’t quite sure what it is, at first. Five little wooden tubes, tied together with twine. Each is a little shorter than the last, and the tip of each on the straight edge is tapered off, kind of like the reed of a flute. After a moment of staring at the thing, turning it over in his hands, Michael finally realises what it is.

It’s a signal whistle. He remembers one of the few memories of his father being of him tucking one of these into his pocket as a peacekeeper walked by, evading suspicion. If Michael remembers correctly, people like his parents - those few who participated in the failed revolution a few years ago, including Ray’s and Lindsay’s families too - used to use these to signal to each other that night raids were occuring, or that the enemy was approaching. They were never highly publicised, but it’s clear what Ray is trying to say to him.

_Make Snow angry. Make your token a symbol of the movement against them. Signal to other rebels out there that they’re not alone._

_Make a statement._

And of course, of anybody, it would be Ray to come up with something like this, Michael finds himself thinking as he tucks the signal whistle away into his jacket. Ray was always the slyest of the three of them, the smartest, while Michael was their daring leader and Lindsay served and moral support and, quite honestly, probably beat up more bullies than the other two put together. In their little group, all three of them with lives overshadowed by the loss of parents too young and the loss of innocence along with it, tied together by the rebellion, Ray was always the one who cared most about proving them wrong. About making them angry.

And Michael really, _really_ likes the sound of that.

Even so, seeing Ray and Lindsay one last time and having a plan like this doesn’t do much to lessen the blow of… everything. Michael is shepherded onto the train by angry peacekeepers, their contempt with this whole thing obvious even with their masks on. His mentor is nowhere to be seen either, and Michael is told by one of the staff onboard that the man, Jack Pattillo, is already in the Capitol and will be meeting them there.

Alone and still feeling numb, Michael collapses in bed without much thought for food or anything else, the signal whistle tucked close to his heart. The bed is more comfortable than anything he’s ever laid on in his life, and Michael hates it. He doesn’t even notice when the train starts to move until he glances out of the window, seeing the trees whipping by, obscuring the sky. Michael has never felt so _trapped._

And he makes a promise to himself then, lying on the bed with an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, that he won’t allow this to be for nothing. Michael has no illusions that dying a martyr is a glorious death - his parents proved that wrong when they were lined up in front of the firing squad with the other rebels and nobody ever even knew that their operation had existed - but if he was going to die anyway, it might as well be holding a symbol that meant freedom, and hope. It might as well be to show the hidden rebels out there that not all hope was lost.

It might as well be to keep his parents’, and Ray’s parents’, and Lindsay’s parents’ legacies alive.

_This will not be for nothing. I will not die for nothing. My death will not mean nothing._

Sleep does not come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember to leave a comment! They're my lifeblood.

**Author's Note:**

> Please remember to leave a comment if you can! Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
